


Before the Rain

by TriffidsandCuckoos



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Gen, Off-Screen OC Death, Prompt Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-18
Updated: 2012-08-18
Packaged: 2017-11-12 09:47:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,360
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/489522
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TriffidsandCuckoos/pseuds/TriffidsandCuckoos
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On a grey autumn day, John finds himself in a graveyard.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Before the Rain

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt: _Sherlock or John; Wither'd leaves, wither'd leaves, that fly before the gale: / Withered leaves, withered leaves, ye tell a mournful tale, / Of love once true, and friends once kind, / And happy moments fled: / Dispersed by every breath of wind, / Forgotten, changed, or dead! / Autumn leaves, autumn leaves, lie strewn around me here! / Autumn leaves, autumn leaves, how sad, how cold, how drear! ('George Edmund's Song' by Charles Dickens).`_
> 
> Written and set pre-Reichenbach

John survived the war, in whatever shape ‘survived’ still covers. He knows that, for all the PTSD and questionable priorities and bullet scars and screaming nightmares and anything else his therapist used to talk to him about, he’s still lucky. He still made it back. (At least physically he did.)

Not everybody gets so lucky.

He doesn’t tend to let himself linger on the thoughts – partly because this kind of morbidity isn’t generally in his nature, partly because he gets so swept up in Sherlock’s cases that he actually manages to forget for a moment, and partly because he does still remember that horrible lost feeling when he first came home and more than anything else he doesn’t want to go back there – but sometimes he doesn’t have any choice. Like now, for instance: it’s cold, it’s grey, and it’s a fucking graveyard.

He doesn’t even have to be here. It’s not a funeral or anything; he missed it, actually. While he was in the hospital, still not sure if he was going to live or die – or which one he wanted – some of the others in his regiment had an answer already. They’d already, as his oh so helpful and most definitely sympathetic nurses put it, ‘gone home’.

Like Sacker.

Sacker, who always had a joke; who had a girlfriend he wouldn’t stop talking about – not that any one of them would have stopped him, for all they teased him about it – a girlfriend he was going to marry when he got home, but never had a chance because in the end that sniper took out more than one of them.

Sacker, whose gravestone John’s staring at right now. Never got to be a beloved husband or father, like some of the others John’s visited over the last year (he’s avoided this one for so long, because it’s too personal, it’s too close to what he missed, it’s something that wakes him up at nights and leaves him staring at the ceiling and listening to violin performances he can normally sleep through if he wants to). Sacker’s just ‘dearly missed’, and they don’t say who by.

Why is he here? He actually managed an entire day at the clinic without falling asleep or being dragged off by Sherlock, so it’s something remotely approaching what other people call a normal day, and on his way home his feet instead took him…here. To a grave that makes him feel like a coward.

Christ, he hates autumn. Hates how bloody cold it is – yes, the summer felt cold too, everything does after Afghanistan, but it wasn’t this damp, windy cold that’s made it its mission to find every single gap in John’s coat and bury in deep. He hates the way the ground’s covered in dead leaves, turning brown underfoot, and he hates what the overcast skies (like they can’t even be bothered to rain) do to him. Afghanistan was never this bloody miserable.

Funny how in the face of war and murderers and corpses John can cope just fine, but one cloudy day and he’s out in a graveyard moping around like a teenager a breath away from writing bad poetry. (He remembers when Harry had had that phase. It’s a large part of the reason why he hates moments like this quite so much.)

He’s so caught up in that horrible grey feeling, his thoughts wandering hopelessly between death and sepia-coloured memories and anything else guaranteed not to cheer him up, that he doesn’t register the sound of leaves crunching underfoot. However, his flatmate is not one to let people not notice him.

“An overcast day and you come to a graveyard. How predictable.” At least Sherlock doesn’t say _dull_ ; he doesn’t have to. John can hear it anyway.

John doesn’t jump. He thinks he should be proud of that, but really he’s just grown used to Sherlock’s sudden appearances. He expects them now.

He knows Sherlock wants him to ask how the world’s only consulting detective tracked him down. Funny, he thinks rather bitterly, enjoying anything even close to anger, how being dull and predictable doesn’t seem to matter when Sherlock’s ego is involved. He can’t be bothered though.

“I believe it’s standard practice for you to react verbally.”

“I believe you find being standard boring.” John’s slightly surprised by just how blank his voice sounds. Still, he supposes he couldn’t have expected much more. He hasn’t even looked at Sherlock yet; Sacker’s grave still draws his gaze like a magnet. Maybe that’s annoying his flatmate, who can never stand not being the centre of attention. Good.

He hears Sherlock sigh. “I assume you’re aware that you’re more likely to snap when you’re like this.”

“Like what?”

“I’d venture a guess at ‘depressed’ - in the vernacular rather than the clinical sense – judging by the setting and your demeanour. You tend to become defensive when experiencing emotions you believe make you appear weak.”

Now John does look at him, more than a bit irritated to find that Sherlock’s gaze isn’t even aimed at him, but rather at the gravestone. No doubt trying to remember if Sacker means something to him. “I don’t think that.”

“So you say.”

John doesn’t say anything.

“So.” Sherlock tilts his head to one side and narrows his eyes. “You’re here for a specific grave. Why this one, then? Personal connection. That’s perfectly natural for a soldier – extreme conditions are more likely to precipitate closer connections faster – but why visit his grave in particular? Could be that he’s the only one close to you who died, but I find that unlikely. Your body language and speech suggest something deeper, perhaps something regarding the nature of his death, because as much as you look sad, you also look guilty.”

John’s not sure if he should be angry or incredulous. Generally Sherlock assigns people emotions rather than actually observes them. Still, he does have an advantage in that respect when it comes to John, even if he’s not sure how Sherlock came to be able to distinguish an expression of _guilt._

Still, Sherlock is waiting.

“Sacker. He was… He was in my regiment. Got shot the same time as me. Think he might have been trying to protect me, I’m not sure.” And John really hates that; hates the idea that something so amazing and that may have saved his life can be forgotten so easily. (And not just because he knows that’s going to happen to him in the end. It already is.) All he has are a blur of images that don’t make any sense and the odd disorienting mixture of shock, pain, and a weird detached disbelief. He can’t remember where anyone was, or if he’s added in the recollection of Sacker pushing him down. Or shouting at him. Or leaping in front. It keeps being different and John wants to remember it, because he bloody well _should_ , but the fever put paid to whatever he might have recalled otherwise. “I made it, in the end. He didn’t.”

“And you blame yourself.” He hears Sherlock sigh in what sounds an awful lot like annoyance. Prick. “Of course.”

That hits a nerve, through the depression that’s already settling back into his bones. “What do you mean, ‘of course’?”

Sherlock doesn’t even look sorry, just slightly bored. “It’s in your nature, John. Either you’ve convinced yourself that you could have done something – never mind what – or you’re suffering pointless guilt for being in some way responsible, or even wishing _you_ had died instead.” The last option is announced dismissively, accompanied by a gesture as if to sweep the idea away, as if the very notion is idiotic. 

When John doesn’t immediately react, Sherlock quickly turns to look at him closely. “No,” he murmurs, but John’s refusal to meet his scrutiny – not that that ever makes any difference – clearly proves him wrong.

“John – ”

“What?” Much as John would love to know how that sentence was going to end, he’s feeling both defensive and a bit stupid, and he just needs _something_ to happen. “I’d think the same if you died.” At least he has enough presence of mind to bite back _worse_ , although there’s a flicker that suggests Sherlock knows anyway. As usual.

Sherlock’s mouth twists into that uncomfortable line that shows that not only does he not like John talking like this – in terms of subject or mood – he’s still not sure if he likes that John would definitely die for him. Or if it’s good that he does. It probably doesn’t help that both of them can quite vividly remember a certain swimming pool an eternity ago.

Now John can meet his gaze, challenging him to say something, _anything_ , except now they’re off into the realm of emotion and this is the one area where Sherlock prefers to say nothing at all. That’s fine too: John’s obviously not in the best mood for talking, since his options are either self-pitying depression or snapping at his flatmate, neither of which he likes about himself.

The silence stretches out a moment longer, before, to John’s surprise, Sherlock is the one to look away first, his expression oddly reminiscent of when he’d thought that John was hitting on him way back in Angelo’s. John guesses that it indicates Sherlock is just going to avoid the emotional issue for now. “John, how much longer are you going to stand here?”

“You don’t have to wait for me.”

A _hmph_ of disapproval. “You don’t like being alone when you’re like this.”

“How do you know?”

“You moved in with me.”

Now Sherlock is back to normal it seems, with the confident raised eyebrow that quite clearly shows that he knows he’s right, he’s just waiting for the reaction.

“I just… I missed his funeral, Sherlock.”

“So?”

Not for the first time, John has to take a moment to remind himself that Sherlock is not an alien. “Haven’t you ever lost anyone?” It’s a bit underhanded as tactics go, but what the hell, John’s getting tired of everybody thinking he’s the nice one. Relativity’s an amazing thing.

And there it is again: that twitch of discomfort, and come to think of it, it looks less like Sherlock has no idea what’s going on and more like he very much does. And John has one of his own little mental leaps, accompanied by the inevitable guilt, and realises that of course someone who prefers to avoid emotions, especially in favour of logic, wouldn’t like the ones that tend to overpower you. Like love. Or grief.

So he doesn’t push the point, but he does let his gaze drift back to Sacker’s grave.

“Both of my parents.”

John can’t stop himself freezing at that, and has to frantically chant _don’t ask, don’t ask_ again and again to himself, because Sherlock almost never opens up like this and being interrupted is a sure-fire way to not only make him clam up but also earn the silent treatment for at least a week.

_And you know how it always upset Mummy._

Past tense. _God_ , past tense. John had assumed they were referring to some specific incident. Added to the angry way Sherlock had reacted…

About a year ago, John would have tried to talk about it. That’s because about a year ago John had only just met Sherlock. Now he bites back any questions and just nods, since it’s not really his job to talk, just to listen. If Sherlock wants to talk, there’s no stopping him, and if he doesn’t want to talk, it’s not worth the argument to manage it.  
Especially since one of the effects of this weirdly grey feeling is losing any energy to do, well, anything.

So the two of them just stand there in silence, long enough for John’s thoughts to turn back to Sacker; only it’s not just Sacker, it’s all of them, the soldiers and Sherlock’s parents and whoever else connected to John is lying in a graveyard in autumn, where the only colour is from dying leaves.

There is no way any of this is going on the blog.

Even if it is kind of nice to have one of these shared moments of silence with Sherlock outside of the flat, especially when there’s a chance that Sherlock isn’t just mentally chanting _bored_ over and over again until Lestrade calls. Not that John can read minds, of course – he leaves that to Sherlock – but he’s lived with Sherlock long enough to pick up on basic body language.

Thing is, a lot of things about Sherlock almost make sense if his parents are dead, although of course John doesn’t know anything about how he was when they were alive. But that way he cuts himself off from the world, except for a brother who does everything he can to force his way into Sherlock’s life… It would definitely be easier.

Sherlock would hate it if he knew what John is thinking right now. However, his expression doesn’t show any sign that he’s aware of it: it’s quiet, reflective, and there’s a strange turn to his mouth that suggests his thoughts might not be as detached as usual.

It’s…nice. If a little bleak.

John actually wishes it would rain.

“Fine, you can stay here,” Sherlock says abruptly, breaking the moment and turning sharply to leave.

“What?”

“I’ll see you at Baker Street.”

He turns to leave, his coat billowing out behind him in the dramatic fashion that John suspects he chose it for. John watches him go, a figure in black appropriately enough amongst the headstones, and then looks back at Sacker’s grave.

It’s true, Sacker never deserved to die. And if he had the choice, John probably would trade places, because the man he remembers should have lived; _would_ have lived if the universe made any sense whatsoever.

But it doesn’t.

So John turns away, the dead leaves scrunching underfoot, and hurries after Sherlock, who has obligingly but almost imperceptibly slowed down for him, because of course he knew John would do this, the same way he knows everything else.

And finally it starts to rain.

**Author's Note:**

> 'Ormond Sacker' was Conan Doyle's original name for John Watson.


End file.
